Alright
by there-is-a-bluebird
Summary: "Cas! I thought you were dead, you stupid-" And maybe it's the way that Dean's eyes are still sparkling, or maybe it's the hitch and catch in roughness of his voice, or maybe it's because that for a moment there, Cas thought he might be dead too – something in him snaps, and he reaches out for Dean first. He's not going to die without this.


For vespertineflora of tumblr! 3

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Cas, waking up in the backseat of the Impala, bruised and battered and a little sore but okay. A wound on his side has been neatly stitched up, but when he catches a glance of himself in the rear-view mirror, there's still a bit of blood smeared across his hairline, and he remembers how the hunt went wrong and what it felt like to have nerves that shot fiery pain right through you even before you knew what was happening, to be a slave to that awful agony and capable of nothing but struggling away from it, inch by slow inch. It's dark outside. The Impala is empty, so he slips out of the door and sees a familiar silhouette standing under the stars. He' heads towards it and is going to call Dean's name out when the figure raises a hand to his face, scrubs an arm across his eyes, and then takes a drag on something and throws the glowing tip aside. Castiel remembers the human legends of angels smoking cigarettes and creating shooting stars.

He doesn't call out. He just stands there, uselessly, arms hanging by his side with the trenchcoat threatening to slip, lopsided, off one shoulder, and he watches Dean look up at the starry sky. In the dim moonlight, Castiel sees him swallow, hears him sniff, once. Punctuation. Marking the end of this interlude. Dean turns, instincts honed after thirty years in the game, feeling that he's being watched. His shoulders tense as he sees Cas, and he storms forward with a tight jaw and clenched fists, like he's going to teach Cas to be more careful by beating the shit out the angel himself.

"Cas! I thought you were dead, you stupid son of a bitch-"

And maybe it's the way that Dean's eyes are still sparkling, or maybe it's the hitch and catch in roughness of his voice, or maybe it's because that for a moment there, Cas thought he might be dead too – something in him snaps, and he reaches out for Dean first. He's not going to die without this-

He pulls Dean to him, fiercely, toppling the unsuspecting man off his feet, smashes their mouths together, and can only think oh. Dean's hot and wet and firm against him, and Cas leans in, trying to get closer, trying to taste more of him because Dean tastes like smoke and the salt of sweat and tears and he smells of dirt and blood and then the stars align as Dean opens his mouth. Dean's hands are on his hips, pushing him backwards but holding on tight, and Cas stumbles back until his legs hit the bonnet of the Impala, and Dean's hands are on his thighs and he's being lifted, sat on the front of the car, pushed back, and Dean kisses like a man starved-

"Cas-"

"Dean," he grunts, taking a greedy gulp of air in the second they are apart before he pulls the man back to him again. Tides move in Castiel deeper than any of the seas on Earth, and although he's not technically an angel, he thinks he feels every star in the sky flare. Dean's rough hands ruck up his shirt, and Cas hisses through his teeth when fingertips brush over his sore ribs. He concentrates on shedding Dean's layers of clothing, impatiently pushing the leather jacket and then the plaid shirt off his shoulders, frustrated by a brief moment by the black t-shirt until Dean relents for a second, breaks the kiss to yank it off, one-handed, over his head and throw it aside. Cas runs his fingers over the expanse of Dean's back, feels old scars on the skin he once smoothed new.

Dean's tongue is against his own, frantic and desperate and melting all the way down his spine, warmth spreading through his body and coalescing in his gut, swirling and sparking hot as Dean grinds against him, and he knows that Dean is waiting and he knows that he would wait forever if Cas let him because they've been dancing around this ever since Cas took the man's soul in his arms, held it against the blossoming of his own. He grabs Dean's belt and unbuckles it with haste, works at the button on his jeans, plunges his hand into Dean's pants and feel the hot hard length of him, the softness of his skin, the gentle gasp in his mouth. Dean pulls back and rests their forheads together, panting, and Cas gently runs his fingers up and down, up and down-

"Cas, are you- are you sure?"

He tilts his head back and looks up at the Righteous Man, and thinks that even though he is fallen now, he can still see Dean's soul shining out of his eyes, as pure and perfect as the first time he'd ever encountered it. "I'm sure," Cas says simply, and leans up to catch Dean in a kiss again, tightening his grip and jerking his hand, feeling Dean moan into his mouth. Then Dean's hands are on him – hands that have held his brother back from fire, and cleaned a gun and took a life and hands that have been bruised and bloody and broken, hands that Dean Winchester uses to go out in the world and get what he wants. He lays hands on Castiel, and Castiel loves him and fears him and his eyes roll back in awe as the world shakes.

"Cas, c'mon, Cas-"

And Dean's shoving at his pants, so Cas wraps his legs around Dean's waist presses the palms of his hands to the Impala's hood, lifts himself so Dean can pull the trousers out from under him, slide them down his thighs, and the night air is cool on his skin, and Castiel's head is spinning and his blood thumping and in six hundred million years he's never felt quite so alive. _I could have died,_ he thinks, twisting his hand in Dean's hair as the other man kisses his neck,_ I could have died without knowing any of this_. And then Dean drops him back onto the cold metal hood and Cas unwraps his legs as the trousers are ripped roughly off. Dean's kissing him again, hungry and amazed, keeps pulling back to look into his eyes. His hands are shaking as he strokes down Castiel's stomach, skirts over his thighs.

"I've never done this before," he mutters, and laughs a little. "Not like..."

Not for the first time, Cas hears everything that Dean really wants to say. _Not like this_. Not with a man, he means, oh yes, but also _not like this. Never like this. Never under the stars with tears in my eyes because I thought you were dead and now you're in my arms. Never been afraid, before. Never loved like this._

"Me neither," Cas says evenly, staring up at Dean steadily. When the other man breaks his thousand-yard-stare to look into Castiel's eyes, the ex-angel crooks a small sideways smile that tells him he wouldn't want it any other way. And then he gasps at Dean's hand around his cock, and it is Dean's turn to smirk, and between them they settle on a punishing rhythm, tugging each other with rapidly increasing speed, and Cas can feel someone's pulse – he's not sure whose – and see all kinds of colours behind his closed eyelids as Dean's tongue sweeps across his bottom lip. Then there's just his racing heart and Dean's fingers slipping lower, pushing into him slowly, and Cas bites his lip and then-  
"Fuck-!"

Dean freezes and goggles, caught between surprise, amusement, and panic, and Cas' eyes snap open. He thinks he feels the shadow of his wings flickering as he glares.

"Don't. Stop."

Dean pushes into him again and Cas grunts and squirms and pants, continuing sloppily to jerk Dean's cock, hand half-slack and Dean pushes again, again, and little needy noises break out of Cas' throat- Dean's cock throbs, hot and so hard, and Cas spreads his thighs as wide as he can. Dean adds another wet finger, slowly:

"Cas, you look – man, you look really – Oh God, Cas, you're so fucking _perfect_."

Cas whines and wiggles and grabs his own cock with his spare hand when Dean pulls out. He squints up at the figure before him, Dean, flushed and panting and spitting in his palm, and Cas falls back and helplessly works himself, falling to instinct, knowing what to do as his body thrusts up of its own free will. The stars above him twinkle a little, and in the dark, under the moon, Cas is thankful that he's here. He'd rather be here, by this path, by his choices, then anywhere else on Earth or in Heaven.

"Are you ready?"

"_Yes_, Dean!"

Dean leans over him and kisses him, nuzzles him, and then guides his dick and begins to push. It's not painful, actually, not like he expected. It's like – it feels like – it's – oh, it's-

It feels like coming home.

It feels like Castiel has been waiting around for a few million years because he's been made for this moment, and it feels like he's whole now, and he never wants this to change. Dean's wide eyes are hovering over him, and there's a little bit of soil still in one eyebrow, and his pink lips are shiny and parted and Cas looks upon him and sees Love and he knows the Face of God is here on Earth and Love is in his arms-

"Cas, Cas, Cas, you're so good, you're perfect-"

Cas kisses him, hard and wet and fast and deep, and Dean begins to thrust, afraid of pulling back too far, short little movements that terminate in groans when the head of his dick punches into Cas' prostate, and he just- just- can't believe this is all really real and happening so fast, that he is hanging on to Dean's shoulders, holding him, kissing him, and it's really just the two of them-

And he _gets it_, now, this whole "human" thing. Now that he isn't just an angel folded over like origami to try and fit in a stretch of sinew and tendon and blood and bone, it's different. It's not just something other people do. He's here, under Dean, whining and wriggling and experiencing sensations somewhere between physical and emotional – feeling love climbing his spine like ivy, blossoming in the base of his stomach with a curious unfolding of wings. Dean is kissing him, and their tongues touch, and he feels something like fire sparking between them that can't possibly really be there, and he feels like he's drowning at the same time, and he also feels like he's standing somewhere very high up where the air is thin on the edge of a cliff and he knows he's about to fall off-

"Dean, Dean, Dean," he chants, without meaning to, little huffs of air escaping whenever their kiss breaks. Dean. Dean. Dean. A litany – a hymn - a prayer. A single name in the dark which tastes of white fire when it drops off his lips. Dean, above him, eyes shining, wet lips pressed together firm, hot skin under Cas' fingertips beginning to bead with sweat. Dean, human, but bigger. Eyes and brain and heart and arms and legs and bones and a soul that can't be contained in anything but himself. Wrecking havoc on Heaven and Hell and upsetting the course of the orbit of Fate, Dean, Free Will swilling whiskey, rebellion in a buttoned-down shirt with sleeves rolled up the forearms and scars on show.

The cosmos had shrunk down to the size of the two of them, and the movement of the universe was every shift of Dean's hips. A single beautiful fragment. Cas licking into his mouth and praising his Father for all of Creation that led to this, Cas wrapping his legs tight around Dean's waist and feeling the span of his world, Cas swallowing every little bit-off grunt Dean allowed to escape –_ Cas, you're – fuck – I've always fucking wanted this, Cas-_

"I love you," Cas cries out, eyes snapping open and seeking Dean's green, his hand clutching Dean's shoulder. "I love you-"

"Cas!"

Heartbeats-

Dean's kiss-

"Cas, I love you,_ Cas_-"

Castiel comes, utterly human, gasping and hanging on hard to Dean, hips jerking, and he feels angelic again. He feels like he's in flight, and the size of mountains, and pure white bright burning light. Dean is frantically thrusting into him, groaning, and his lips find Cas' mouth again and Cas feels like he's being drawn up from drowning to the taste of fresh air in his lungs, unable to do anything but to hang on and gasp and shake and try to take all the pleasure-

Dean collapses onto him, sticky and sweaty, and starts to laugh. And under the winking stars in the sky, with his shirt rucked up and his ribs still aching, Cas laughs with him, grips him tight, holds him close.

"Cas, man, I – uh-" Dean sniffs, then lifts his head a little, turning to look at him. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't really have to.

They stay like that for a while, until it starts to get cold, so Dean gets off him and Cas learns about tenderness and struggles to put his trousers back on over his shoes, hopping about on one foot while Dean grins. He wonders briefly if this is it, now, that Dean will drive away from him like he's left all those women littered behind him, broken hearts on the roadside. The night gets a little colder, and his ribs start to ache, but Dean waits. Cas drags himself to the car and Dean slips easy into the driver's seat, flicks on the radio, takes them back to the road.

"Let me know if you see a motel," he asks, cruising along. It's almost midnight, and Cas is tired – he nods, but soon his head is lolling back against the seat, his eyes drooping.

Dean reaches out and takes his hand.

He doesn't say anything.

He doesn't have to.

When Cas wakes, it's to Dean's ticklish kiss on his temple, and somehow, everything is going to be alright.


End file.
